


Succumb or Retreat

by MykEsprit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Dark Artifacts, Forbidden Fruit, H/D Food Fair 2018, Light Choke Play, M/M, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-07-23 23:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16169345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: Draco procures the Forbidden Fruit, and Auror Harry Potter arrives to take it from him.





	Succumb or Retreat

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[155](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1E_uQJlIb5C6nLnMg8VrUUnrKtyx16is1FLbyvoxLEik/edit): Apple (Forbidden Fruit/Knowledge of Good and Evil)  
> Scenario: Draco is a collector of Dark Artifacts (as described in Pottermore); he doesn’t use them, but continues to fraternize with the shady personalities who trade them, who've gone into hiding after the war. Harry, meanwhile, is the Auror gone rogue, doing the right thing but in manners further and further defying the Auror rule book. They meet only sporadically, when information changes hands: when Draco finds himself in bad business deals and and revenges by telling on those who’ve wronged him, or when Harry wants to track down something questionable / too dangerous for the Ministry to tackle. They fuck on those occasions, roughly and ruthlessly.
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling.
> 
> Thank you so much to the mods for putting this fest together! And many thanks to the prompter for such a fantastic prompt! Beta love to Orcl777.

It nestled inside an unmarked cedar box, its waxy skin shining against the crushed black velvet. Crisp, white flesh, glossy with juice, peeked out from two overlapping bites.

Draco frowned. “It’s smaller than I thought it would be.”

An irritated grunt came from his dark-haired companion, a barrel-shaped man named Cree. He glared at Draco under a pair of scruffy eyebrows and sneered at him behind a grizzly beard. “Wha’dya _think_ it was goin’ to look like?” His voice was as gruff as his face.

Draco’s wrist flicked dismissively. “Like an _apple_ ,” he scoffed. “You know, like in the _Bible_? The Forbidden Fruit? _This_ product,”—he glared at the stone-sized fruit—“ is _not_ as described.”

Cree grumbled under his breath. Then, much louder, “Ya best check your sources. It wa’nt ever no apple.”

Draco feigned utter shock. “How _dare_ you, sir!” He fanned his fingers over his chest. “That’s simply blasphemous!”

“Why do I fucking bother…” Cree growled. He snapped the lid closed. "If ya don’t want it—" He turned to leave, the movement disturbing the air, replacing it with the stench of unwashed rags.

"Wait!" Draco reached an arm out. He stopped short of laying his immaculate glove on the Dark Artifact smuggler’s grimy cloak. "Let me see that again."

With an exasperated growl, Cree set the box on the table and lifted the lid.

Draco peered inside. It didn’t look remarkable at all. One could have stepped on it in the middle of a forest with nary a glance—crushed it under his heel without realizing it bore the Knowledge of Good and Evil.

He reached inside and plucked it out. Cree sputtered in protest, but Draco silenced him with a glare.

“Hmm.” He tested its weight in his palm. Truly, it mattered not what he bought from this low-level criminal. There was a singular purpose to his procurement of Dark Artifacts, and this one was as good as any. “I’ll take it.”

Cree gave him a gap-toothed grin; Draco tried not to grimace.

* * *

By the time he strode into his study, a fire crackled in the hearth, bathing the room in a soft, yellow glow.  It brought him no comfort. Nefarious dealings always made him edgy, and he desperately needed a drink. Draco rushed to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of Firewhisky, downing it in one gulp.

"Long day?" a voice called out nonchalantly from the couch near the fireplace.

Draco hissed, fumbling with the crystal tumbler and steadying it in his grip before it splashed on the white carpet. "Bloody hell!” He glared at the backlit figure lounging against the dark leather. “How do you always get in here?!"

"Your security wards are shit," said Harry Potter. His green eyes narrowed, teasing and challenging at the same time. They were much easier to read now that he no longer wore glasses—and much more unnerving, too. "Took me eight seconds to bring them down this time. I beat my old record.” The corners of his lips turned up in a smug grin.

"Isn't that a bit—I don't know— _illegal_?” Draco sneered, turning to pour himself another drink.  "Breaking and entering is still against the law, last time I checked."

Harry stood up and sauntered over to his side. He reached over to grab an empty tumbler, placing it on the sideboard next to Draco’s glass. " _Break_ the law?" The timber of his voice warned of danger. "I _am_ the law.”

Draco scoffed. "You're a bloody _Auror_."

Harry squared his shoulders and folded his arms over his chest. “That's what I just said.”

Draco shook his head, exasperation and awe battling in his chest. "You know, if anyone at school had told me you'd end up like this, I would have reported them to Dumbledore for demonic possession.” He filled the tumblers with amber liquid and handed one to Harry.

“You always _were_ a rat,” Harry said casually before taking a sip.

“And _you_ were always a bullheaded reprobate,” Draco sneered, “though I’m not sure that I wouldn’t prefer that over what you are now.”

Harry frowned. “And what _am_ I now?”

Draco waved his hand carelessly. "Morally questionable," he drawled.

A dry chuckle escaped Harry’s lips. "I prefer, ‘morally _pliable_.’" He tipped the glass back and emptied it. "You would be, too, if you’ve been disillusioned by the very Ministry you’ve tried to save. It moves too slow; the bureaucrats too stupid and complacent. If I don’t do things my way, it’s only a matter of time before another Voldemort comes to power.” His eyes narrowed in amusement. “Besides, it’s the fastest way to get results.”

Draco tutted. "You're just impatient."

"I _am_ impatient,” he admitted. His lips turned up into a rapacious smile. “For a lot of things.”

“Oh?” Draco straightened his shoulders and gazed into Harry’s green eyes. It was his favorite game—one he played in his head, counting the seconds he could withstand the Auror’s heated gaze before he either succumbed or retreated. “For what? Broom traffic?”

“For example,”—Harry took a step closer, narrowing the space between them—"when a man _clearly_ on probation for possessing Dark Artifacts goes out and gets yet _another_ one.”

As Harry advanced, Draco’s skin flushed—hot. Too hot.

_Succumb or retreat?_

The Auror’s glare overwhelmed him. Draco hurried to the hearth, where the fire burned bright—though its heat was more tolerable than Harry’s searing proximity.

“Where is it, Draco?” His voice was careful and level.

Draco affected an innocent look.

Harry laughed mirthlessly. “Naivete doesn’t suit you.” He prowled around the couch. “Where is the Forbidden Fruit?”

Draco folded his arms over his chest. “Now, Potter,” he droned, “are you spying on me?”

“I’m keeping an eye on my errant charge.” He closed the distance between them. “Don’t you know how much trouble you could get in for acquiring another artifact? You could be sent to Azkaban!” His emerald eyes blazed with fury.

Once again, Draco played the game where he both lost and won at the same time— _succumb or retreat_?

"Well, it's a good thing I've got a man on the inside," Draco murmured, choosing the former option—though, in all honesty, that was usually how the game ended. "Speaking of which—" He reached up and traced a finger over the curve of Harry’s ear.

Harry growled in frustration, turning away from Draco’s touch. "We shouldn't—” He pedaled back, putting the leather couch between them.

Draco huffed after him. “For fuck’s sake, Potter!” he spat. “Every time you come here, you chase me around the room like a bloody cougar, but at the first sign of my returning any interest, you turn to a bloody coward!” He placed a hand on Harry’s lower back, pulling him close. “We both know why you come here,” he hissed in Harry’s ear, “and it’s _not_ for any Dark Artifact.” Draco caught Harry’s earlobe, scraping it lightly with the edge of his teeth.

Harry snarled. His fingers slid up the back of Draco’s neck—curling into his hair, yanking it taut. “You never learn, do you?” Harry seethed.

Despite the pain at his scalp, a slow grin formed on Draco’s lips. “Never,” he taunted. The fingers in his hair twisted tighter.

“And why not?” Harry’s pupils had blown wide—obsidian rimmed with emeralds.

“Because I know how much that drives you crazy.”

With a thunderous rumble in his throat, Harry released the grip on his hair—only to place his hands on Draco’s hips, whipping him around.

Draco was trapped—his back pressed against the hard planes of Harry’s chest, his thighs flush against the couch’s back.

Harry’s arm wrapped around Draco’s torso like a solid bar. “You _know_  I've got a terrible temper.” Harry’s hand moved to the base of Draco’s neck; his fingers pressed firmly above each collarbone. “And yet you rile me up.” Harry’s knees shoved between Draco’s legs. “Don’t you know how dangerous that is? There’s a prison full of criminals who can attest to it.”

Draco’s arousal pressed against the couch—painful, enticing. “Is that a threat?” he whispered. The fingers on his neck tightened in response.  Draco bit back a groan.

“There are two things that are going to happen tonight.” Harry’s lips grazed his skin as he spoke, and it sent bolts of electricity up his spine. “The _second_ thing is that I walk out of here with the Forbidden Fruit in my possession.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. “And the first?” he rasped.

“I fuck you over this couch.” Harry sank his teeth just below Draco’s earlobe. Draco arched into him, pressing his arse against the full length of Harry’s arousal.

Strong, urgent hands landed on Draco’s shoulders, bending him over the couch’s low back. Draco steadied himself, his fingers sinking into the leather cushions.

In the space of a blink, Draco’s trousers were undone.

Harry’s hand caressed the swell of his arse. A light touch, surprising and terrifying in its own way—like a snake wrapping its smooth, muscular body around its prey before delivering the final kill. Draco’s heart thudded in anticipation.

He didn’t need to wait long.

Harry muttered something under his breath, and thick liquid warmed the skin in the cleft of his arse. Before Draco could appreciate the sensation, Harry parted his cheeks and slid inside.

A sharp gasp pierced the air, though whether it came from him or Harry, he couldn’t be certain. It was always like this—the sensation of Harry’s wide girth filling him, driving him mad. Logic, thought, observation—all gone, chased away by ecstasy and need, both carnal and devastating.

With a shaky breath, Harry began to move. It was rough—it was _invariably_ rough. Fingers gripped his hips; nails dug into his skin. Harry reeled back and drove home, again and again. Each thrust shoved Draco harder against the couch. Between the punishing rhythm and the way the soft leather rubbed against his own erection, Draco could only clasp shreds of lucidity and ride out the oncoming wave of pleasure.

When it happened, it did so quickly.

Black spots formed in his vision as he descended from his high, aware of only Harry’s continued thrusts and stickiness against his lower belly.

But Harry wasn’t done yet. Once again, Harry’s fingers found their way into Draco’s hair. Clutching, tugging, yanking. His other hand was a vice on Draco’s hip. He pulled and plunged, and the couch groaned with a rhythmic _thud-thump, thud-thump_ —faster and faster until Harry howled, consumed in his own brief bliss.

The Auror slumped over him, his shaky breaths matching Draco’s. He didn’t trail kisses down Draco’s back nor murmur tender words against his sweat-drenched skin—that simply wasn’t Harry Potter’s style.

Instead, Draco was released, detached, then exposed to the chill night air. Before Draco could get up, Harry was already buttoning his clothes.

By the time Draco had righted himself, Harry was standing at the table, staring at the content of the plain cedar box.

“You’re leaving, then?” Draco asked, aiming for nonchalance, though hurt seeped through his tone.

Harry slammed the lid down. “I got what I came for.” He marched to the fireplace and dipped his hand in the jar of Floo powder.

Draco followed him slowly, stopping several feet away from the open fire.

Harry glanced at him over his shoulder. “Don’t get anymore Dark Artifacts,” he ordered. Then, he threw the powder into the fire, transforming it into a green blaze that rivaled the heat in his emerald eyes.

In the next moment, Harry was gone.

Draco sank into the couch. His meetings with Harry always ended like this—with the Auror rushing off after a quick, hard fuck, leaving Draco by himself with an empty head and a heavy heart.

He stared into the fire, lamenting that it had taken away something so...priceless.

And that Forbidden Fruit was fucking expensive, too.

Draco didn’t regret dropping the Galleons for its purchase, however. It had done its job, after all—it brought the Auror right where Draco wanted him.

He chuckled to himself. Even now, as an Auror with gray methods and ambiguous principles, Harry Potter was still so fucking predictable.

And Draco couldn’t wait until he could lure him to the Manor again.

He strolled to his desk and pulled out a fresh parchment. With a flourished script, he wrote:

_I require another Artifact…_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/152779.html).


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